


Till Sunbeams Find You

by withdiamonds



Category: Supernatural
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-12-09
Updated: 2009-12-09
Packaged: 2017-10-15 10:44:26
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,276
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/160035
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/withdiamonds/pseuds/withdiamonds
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Pretty much a sequel to <i>Turn Off Your Cellphone and Crack Out the Gatorade</i>.  There's a case in here somewhere, but it's mostly curtain!fic.</p><p>Leave your worries far behind you...</p>
            </blockquote>





	Till Sunbeams Find You

"Really, Sam?" Dean's eyes slanted at the stack of recycling bins at Sam's feet, his eyelids doing that derisive fluttering thing that made Sam want to sock him in the arm. "Really? How many of these things –" and Dean paused to poke at the red bin with his finger, narrowly avoiding knocking it off the top of the stack and into the blue bin – "do we need?"

Feeling both defensive and exasperated, a state Dean could reduce him to in about ten seconds flat on a good day, Sam snapped, "Four. I hope that's not too many for your tiny brain to handle." He reached out a hand to steady the red bin. It had a little white recycle symbol on the side, with the word "Plastic" spelled out underneath.

Dean narrowed his eyes at Sam. "Why do we need _four_ recycling bins?" His tone clearly implied that having four recycling bins was the equivalent of having four hellhounds running around loose in the backyard.

"One for plastic," Sam ticked off on his fingers, "One for newspapers, one for cans and one for glass." Sam's tone clearly implied the big, fat _duh_ on the end of his sentence. "We can take our old magazines and cardboard boxes to the recycling center whenever we need to," he added, and Dean stared at him as if he had sprouted wings, which in Sam's case would be very unlikely. "What?"

"It's finally happened, hasn't it, Sammy? You've finally lost your mind." Dean shook his head sadly. "It was bound to happen sooner or later. I guess I was hoping for later, but Bobby said -"

"Fuck you, and Bobby, too," Sam said mildly. "All it takes is a little extra effort when you throw shit away. A little extra effort to help save the planet." Sam stopped talking. Even he knew how ridiculous that sounded. His lips twitched and he looked away, over Dean's shoulder and across the fence to their neighbor's yard. Where _their_ recycling bins were lined up haphazardly on the sidewalk next to the garage, overflowing with cardboard boxes, firewood, an old tire, and a broken lawn chair. Not a can or glass bottle in sight.

"You're insane, you know that, don't you?" Dean shook his head and turned on his heel, stalking over to where his car waited in the driveway. "Save the planet," he muttered as he wrenched open the door. "We _already_ saved the planet, you moron," he yelled, sliding behind the wheel. "From the freakin' _apocalypse!"_

"Doesn't mean we can't save its natural resources, too, Dean," Sam yelled back, but Dean slammed the Impala's door closed, started the engine and backed out of the driveway like he was heading off to put out a fire.

Sam didn't stand around waiting to watch him go. He turned back into the small attached garage, dragging the recycling bins behind him. The red bin finally gave up its struggle and toppled off the top of the stack, hitting the concrete floor with a loud clatter.

"Dammit," Sam said without heat. He was impressed that this small Ohio town actually had such a remarkable recycling program. He remembered back to his college days, when Jessica taught him all about the joys of separating their trash, and smiled wistfully at the memory of her sweet scent and laughing eyes.

He shoved the bins against the far wall of the garage, the wall away from the driver's side when the Impala was parked in there. No way did he want Dean stumbling into them every time he got out of the car. Sam would never hear the end of it.

The door from the garage led into the house through the tiny kitchen. Sam thought it was cozy, but Dean bitched about the appliances non-stop. He'd decided, in their newfound, if temporary, domesticity, that he was going to learn how to cook real food; so naturally, the old stove wasn't good enough. Sam was the first to admit it had seen better days, and maybe its avocado green enamel finish was chipped here and there, but he didn't see what the big deal was. It wasn't as if Dean had yet to attempt anything more intricate than macaroni and cheese, or cinnamon rolls out of a cardboard tube.

At least the house was furnished, although it had obviously been a while since anyone lived here. Sam gathered from what their neighbors said that it had stood empty for quite some time. No one actually seemed to know where the owners were, as a matter of fact. Sam tried not to think about it too much. He tried not to want.

He looked around the kitchen with a feeling of something that felt like it could be, given a bit of encouragement, contentment. That was a dangerous way of thinking, and he mentally shook himself as he backed away from it. The last thing he needed to do was lose sight of what they were supposed to be doing here in the first place.

There was a package of hamburger meat thawing out on the counter next to the sink. The frost on the plastic wrap sparkled in the afternoon sunlight, and Sam frowned. He was sure that couldn't be good, a hunk of meat melting in the sun like that.

Scooping up the package of ground beef, Sam tossed it in the fridge so it could thaw without giving him and Dean food poisoning, and then he turned his attention to the dirty dishes piled in the sink.

Up to his elbows in warm, soapy water, Sam gazed out the window at the backyard, noticing without really thinking about it that the scraggy grass needed to be cut and the hedge between them and the weird neighbors on the left could use a trimming.

There was something satisfying about doing dishes. Sam had always thought so, a fact he had kept well hidden from his father and brother while he was growing up. After all, it was equally satisfying to sit on the couch and watch TV while Dean did the dishes.

There was something nagging at Sam, something about the case that had brought them to this nondescript little house in this quiet little neighborhood, that he couldn't put his finger on. It had been bugging him since last night, and when he finished the dishes, he sank down onto the couch in the living room, laptop on his knees, to poke around at what he'd been looking at earlier. He was going to sit here until the answer came to him.

Or until Dean came home from the store. Sam sighed when the roar of the Impala's engine cut through the fog he'd been immersed in. There went any chance for further peaceful contemplation of just what the heck was going on around here.

"Jesus Christ." Dean was bitching before he got even one foot in the door. "Every old fart in Springfield was at the damn grocery store. Do you have any idea how slow some of those folks move? I had no idea it was possible to push a shopping cart in slow motion. I'm telling you, Sammy, it was like the sequel to _Coccoon,_ only without all the getting younger and shit."

The whole time he flapped his lips, Dean was struggling with what seemed like ten bags of groceries. He propped the garage door open with his shoulder and tried to scoot into the kitchen without dropping anything. He succeeded, but it was a close call.

Sam didn't even try to hide his laughter as he managed to grab two of the bags before they hit the floor. "Laugh it up, Chuckles," Dean growled. "And then you can make your own supper." He staggered under the weight of the groceries as he made his way over to the counter next to the refrigerator.

"Ah haha, Dean, what the hell did you buy, anyway?" Sam pulled one of the bags towards him and started to dig through it. Puzzled, he held up the biggest package of bacon he'd ever seen. "Really? I thought you'd given up on the idea of a heart attack before the age thirty five?"

"Shut up," Dean muttered. "I'm not gonna eat it all in one day."

"Oh, yeah?" Sam said dubiously. "Remember that time you ate all those –"

"Dude. Do you want to eat tonight or not?" Dean waved a bag of frozen French fries at Sam threateningly.

"Fine, fine," Sam conceded. A thought occurred to him. "Did you bother to buy any vegetables at all?"

Dean waved the bag of French fries again. "What the hell do you think these are, dumbass?"

Sam just shook his head. "I give up," he said.

"Good." Dean shook his head. "Of course I bought vegetables. I told you after the he-witch, I'm takin' better care of the old ticker these days." He smiled brightly and Sam couldn't help his answering smile.

Now that it seemed maybe they might actually live long enough for Dean's life-long abuse of his cardiovascular system to matter, he actually did eat the occasional salad. It kind of freaked Sam out.

"Now get out of my way while I play _Leave it to Beaver's_ mom." Dean made shooing motions with his hands that reminded Sam of nothing more than the lunch lady at one of his many elementary schools.

"Go do some research or something. See if you can figure out what the hell is going on in this town, so we can finish this job and get the hell out of here." Dean sounded gruff, but he didn't meet Sam's eyes as he thumped the groceries around.

Dean might huff at the mere suggestion that he liked it here on the outskirts of Toledo, he might declare that no way in hell was he cut out to be a suburbanite, he might mock till he was blue in the face, but Sam wasn't buying what he was selling.

Underneath all the bluster, Dean was hanging on to this place by his fingernails. And that was fine by Sam. He just had to figure out a way to convince Dean to admit it and stay here, at least for a little while, when this case was over.

Sam was tired, and he knew Dean was, too.

Settling back down on the couch with his laptop again, Sam gave himself over to the case.

Two deaths so far. That was two too many, as far as Sam was concerned.

Marvin Tyler had been a family man, with a wife and two point five kids, if you counted the dog, which his wife certainly did. Sam had to admit the thing was cute, but Dean seemed to have gone off Yorkies ever since he'd been infected with ghost fever.

Mrs. Tyler said her husband had adored the dog and it was usually impossible to find one of them without the other. Ryan, the oldest kid, had muttered that his father paid more attention to the dog than he did to his kids.

"Now, sweetie, you know that's not true," Mrs. Tyler had said, pushing her son's messy hair back out of his face. But she looked troubled, and Sam thought the kid might not be far off the mark. Ryan jerked his head away from his mother's hand and shook his bangs back over his eyes.

Mrs. Tyler sighed. "Marvin did love that dog. Cosmo almost never left his side. They did everything together. Why, I remember the day old Harry Connor from down the street complained about Cosmo chasing squirrels in his yard. Told Marvin to keep that 'mangy mutt' at home. Marvin was furious." She lowered her voice. "I think he walked Cosmo past his house on purpose, just so he could, you know, 'do his business,'" she said this with her eyebrows raised significantly, making air quotes with her fingers, "in Harry's yard."

Dean snorted. "That's awesome." Mrs. Tyler threw him a weak smile. Ryan peered up at Dean through his bangs with appreciation.

"Do you think old Mr. Connor is dangerous?" Sam asked curiously.

Mrs. Tyler stared up at him. "Harry? I don't think so," she said doubtfully. "He seems pretty harmless to me."

"Sometimes he yells," Ryan said, frowning at his shoes. "He has scary eyes."

"What does he yell about?" Dean asked. Ryan glanced up at his mom, the tips of his ears pink. She shook her head at him.

"Go ahead, tell them."

"Me and my friends were playing ball in the street. I mean, we do that all the time. Where else are we supposed to play," he said indignantly, looking at them like grownups were the most unreasonable creatures he'd ever encountered. "And this one time, the ball went in old man Connor's yard, so Jimmy chased after it." Ryan's sense of grievance appeared to be nearing its crescendo as his story continued. Sam winced a little at the shrillness of his righteous ire.

Mrs. Tyler made a motion with her hand indicating Ryan should dial it down a notch. "Fine," he huffed, "But, seriously. Anyway," he continued, "When Jimmy ran across the yard to get the ball back, old man Connor came out and started yelling at him. Scared him, and so he ran into some old trash cans and knocked them over and they made a heck of a noise."

His eyes danced at this part of his story, and Sam watched his mother try, and fail, to look disapproving. "That just made Mr. Connor yell even louder. And then he said it." And here Ryan lowered his voice and whispered impressively, "You'll be sorry. You'll all be sorry when Higgins comes to get you."

He looked at Sam and Dean expectantly, like they were supposed to have a clue.

Apparently, Dean did.

"Dude," he whistled in appreciation. "That's awesome." Sam thought Dean should spend some time working on his vocabulary and maybe find some new adjectives.

"It is?" Sam asked.

"Dude, _Higgins,_ " Dean said, rolling his eyes at Ryan, as if Sam were just the dumbest thing to ever live.

"Excuse me for being so woefully uninformed," Sam huffed, "But who the hell is Higgins?"

Dean shook his head. "Sammy, have I taught you nothing over the years? Higgins, the bloodthirsty killer from the _Table Saw_ movies?" He grinned at Ryan with more enthusiasm than Sam thought the occasion called for. "He was a badass."

Ryan nodded vigorously. "And when he went after people with his table saw, that was sick!"

"I know, right? Right?" Mrs. Tyler was looking at Dean like she was ready to grab her son and run for her life. Sam kind of didn't blame her.

"How do you go after someone with a _table saw?_ Sam wondered out loud. "I mean…" He trailed off, having trouble with the visuals.

Dean ignored him. "So, old man Connor said Higgins would get you guys for being in his yard and knocking over some trash cans? Guy sounds like a real loser."

"Okay," Mrs. Tyler said, her hand on Ryan's shoulder. "We should, um, go in now," and she gave the kid a little push towards the house.

"Thank you, Mrs. Tyler," Sam said hastily. "And once again, we're sorry for your loss." He elbowed Dean and jerked his chin back toward their borrowed house, trying to subtly communicate that it was time to go to his oblivious brother.

"Uh, okay, then," Dean said, and he turned to follow Sam home. "Hey, kid, _Table Saw III, The Master Returns_ is the best one of the bunch. Tara Benchley's in that one. She's hot," he threw over his shoulder as Sam grabbed his elbow and dragged him away. "Dude, get off me."

Dean wasn't really much for subtlety.

"Dean, don't you think it's a bit inappropriate to be sharing stories of your sexual exploits with a twelve year old boy?" Sam said as they crossed the street to their house.

"Nah. I shared 'em with you when you were twelve, didn't I?" He flashed Sam a wicked grin.

Sam just shook his head and smiled. "Yes, you did, Dean. And how do you know I wasn't scarred for life by it?"

"Who says you weren't?" Dean leered at him as they entered the kitchen, where the smell of baking brownies made Sam's mouth water. "You can be a kinky motherfucker when you want to be, you know. Sometimes I wonder about you, Sammy."

"Lucky for you your stories of high school romance didn't put me off sex for good," Sam murmured as he pushed Dean up against the refrigerator and kissed him firmly.

"Mmm," Dean said in agreement, as he kissed Sam back.

Anyway, Marvin Tyler had died of asphyxiation when he'd been raking leaves and he tried to shove all the leaves he'd raked from his front yard into a plastic bag, which had somehow gotten wrapped around his head. The local cops and the county medical examiner were at a loss to explain how the edges of the bag had tightened and twisted themselves around Marvin's neck.

Sam had to admit they didn't have a clue yet, either, but he knew it wasn't a natural death.

The second death had been messier, with Bobby Harris having his throat cut by his own lawnmower.

He hadn't even been mowing his grass at the time, which subject was apparently a touchy one in the neighborhood. Bobby Harris believed in letting nature take its course, so he let his grass get long and his weeds grow wild, unencumbered by weed killer. He thought autumn leaves were good for his lawn, and they lay undisturbed in his yard, blowing everywhere, coming to rest in his various neighbors' yards.

Sam thought the big pile of leaves along the back fence of their otherwise tidy little yard had come from the Harris place. He didn't mind, though. He liked the way they sounded, rustling underfoot when he went out to fill the birdfeeder with seed and set out the suet.

It wasn't a big lawnmower, as lawnmowers went. Bobby Harris didn't cut his grass often enough to warrant a monster mower. Some of the homeowners around here had huge riding mowers, sturdy-looking John Deeres so big they were practically farm equipment. Sam had seen Dean covetously watching Tom Carter tooling around the yard on his big green monstrosity just the other day, envy in his eyes.

"Look at that, Sammy," he'd scoffed. "Man has a lawnmower that big, he must have a lot to make up for in the dick department." Sam hadn't been fooled. Dean was in lust.

But Bobby Harris's lawnmower was small. Small, but deadly, apparently. How he'd managed to get trapped underneath was anybody's guess. So was why he was anywhere near his lawnmower to begin with. But trapped he'd been, and he'd bled out from a gash right across his throat before anyone found him.

Sam closed his laptop and leaned back against the couch, letting his eyes drift shut as he thought about killer lawnmowers and homicidal trash bags.

He started at the sound of a throat being cleared, and he sat bolt upright, reaching for his gun, which of course wasn't anywhere within reach.

"I'm sorry, I didn't mean to startle you."

Sam sighed. "Dammit, Cas. What have I told you about sneaking up on me like that?" He got to his feet, nodding at Castiel. "Dean's in the kitchen."

"You assume I'm here to see Dean." Castiel tilted his head, looking curious. "Is it beyond the realm of possibility that I would come to see you?"

"Actually, yes," Sam said.

Dean chose that moment to poke his head in from the kitchen. "Cas." His smile was wide. "To what do we owe the pleasure, dude?"

"I'm here to talk to Sam." Dean looked as surprised as Sam felt. His face fell, just a little.

"Oh." He made a fast recovery. "Well," he said, brightly. "Stay for dinner. It's gonna be awesome." He ducked back into the kitchen with a smirk.

Castiel looked at Sam curiously. "Dean is cooking?" He looked around the cozy living room. The curtains were drawn against the gathering darkness outside and the lamp on the end table cast a warm yellow glow over the room. Dean's jacket was tossed on a chair and a fuzzy red afghan that Sam had dragged down from one of the upstairs bedrooms was draped over the back of the couch, just inviting someone to sit and snuggle under it.

It was the homiest-looking place they'd ever stayed in. Sam didn't even care that they were basically squatting, it felt more like home than any of the crowded apartments and crappy hotel rooms they'd lived in when they were kids. Dean had tried, Sam remembered that, until he didn't try anymore. He'd kind of given up, plus he'd been a kid with a lot more to worry about than whether they were all living in some kind of domestic fantasy. Cooking and cleaning took a back seat to hunting, training, and making sure Sam was okay.

Sam liked it here. He kind of wanted to stick around for a while.

He looked up from his thoughts to find Castiel watching him, a knowing expression on his face. He frowned.

"Did you need something, Cas?" he asked abruptly, embarrassed at being caught mooning over a pair of nice curtains and some recycling bins.

"I wanted to talk to you about Dean." Castiel regarded him steadily. In spite of the fact that he'd been called back to Heaven once the apocalypse had been averted, he still popped in to visit on occasion.

Sam blinked. "What about Dean?"

"He has been through much. As have you," he conceded, with a nod in Sam's direction.

"Gee, thanks, Cas."

"I wanted to make sure he's…happy. Or, at least content with the way his life is going at the present time." It could have been Sam's imagination, but he was sure the tips of Castiel's ears were pink.

"And you're asking me about this…why?" Sam said. He sat back down on the couch, and, after a moment's hesitation, Castiel pushed Dean's jacket aside and sat down in the armchair. He folded his hands in his lap, straightened his shoulders, and regarded Sam seriously.

"Because you are the closest person to him, of course," Castiel answered. "And the most important."

"Oookay," Sam said. "Well, yeah, he's fine. I guess. As far as I know, he seems to be – really? You're really asking me this?"

Castiel coughed and looked away. "You think it…inappropriate?"

"I think it's weird as hell. But I get that you care," Sam added hastily, as Cas frowned.

Dean stuck his head into the room again and announced that dinner was ready. It was all Sam could do not to grab him and kiss him out of sheer gratitude for the interruption. Castiel was kind of creeping him out.

Dinner turned out to be macaroni and cheese with hamburger in it, crispy bacon crumbled over the top, French fries, and, to Sam's surprise, sliced tomatoes liberally sprinkled with salt and pepper. Sam hid a smile as he sank into his chair and scooted up to the table.

Dean nodded at the third place setting, then looked up at Castiel. "Sit your ass down here and eat."

After a few minutes of chewing and swallowing appreciatively, Sam looked up to see Castiel watching them curiously.

"What?" Sam asked, reaching for his beer.

"Nothing," Castiel replied, not looking as abashed at being caught staring as Sam thought he should.

"Right," Sam said, and he took another mouthful of macaroni and cheese. Dean must have used more than one kind of cheese in it, because it was really very flavorful.

Dean spent most of the meal telling Cas about the case they were here in Springfield investigating, not as if he expected any answers, or even wanted Castiel's opinion, but like he was just making conversation.

Castiel looked thoughtful, but didn't have much to offer in the way of suggestions. That was probably just as well. Cas's suggestions usually involved supernatural beings that were way out of their league these days.

"Thank you for dinner, Dean," Castiel said almost formally as he pushed his chair back from the table and stood up. He was looking from Dean to Sam and back again like he'd been doing earlier and Sam found it unnerving. It was as if he were waiting for something, or looking for something he wasn't sure he was going to find.

"You are…content?" he suddenly asked Dean. Dean frowned. Castiel frowned back.

"What do you mean?" Dean asked.

"I mean, you, here, with Sam. This makes you happy? Having this?" Castiel gestured between Sam and Dean, and Sam suddenly knew he was talking about more than just living in suburbia. He wanted to reach out and clamp a hand over Castiel's mouth, wanted to shout at him to shut up before he jinxed it.

Dean looked spooked and Sam's hands clenched themselves into fists. Castiel tilted his head. "Don't be afraid to be content, Dean. It's allowed, you know." And he actually smiled before he disappeared with the usual soft rustling of wings.

There was a pause, and then Dean looked at Sam with a smile that almost looked painful. Sam's heart speeded up and he wished he had the kind of psychic or kinetic ability that could prevent Dean from speaking.

"We can't stay here, Sammy." He looked almost sad as he said it, the corners of his mouth pulling down, but he looked determined, too, and Sam knew he had his work cut out for him.

He decided to play it casual for now. After all, they still had to solve this case. Time was on Sam's side.

"You don't think?" Sam shrugged, trying for nonchalant, but he had no idea if he'd succeeded or not. Dean's eyes narrowed just a little, and Sam added, "I can't really think of any reason why not."

That was apparently an invitation for Dean to cite a myriad of reasons why they had to hit the road when they were finished here. Sam let Dean go through his list without interrupting him, but when he said, "Because my baby will get rusty if I don't put 500 miles on her pretty regularly," Sam had had enough.

"Dude, you're reaching," he said mildly. He knew better than to make it a fight, especially this soon. He tilted his head and looked at his brother. "I especially like the one about Bobby needing someone to maintain his panic room for him. I guess you missed the part where he installed an elevator? And that was before Castiel fixed his legs." Sam shook his head. "You keep working on that list, Dean. I'm gonna poke around on the internet some more."

Dean's face was pink, but he shoved at Sam's shoulder as he started clearing plates off the table. "Shut up, Sam. Just because Cas was all hearts and flowers about it doesn't mean –"

"It could," Sam broke in, before Dean could start in again. He held up a hand as Dean started to protest. "Go do the dishes." Sam sighed. "And, Dean, I think we should go talk to Harry Connor tomorrow."

 

 

But before they could go see Harry Connor, there was another death.

The guy who lived in the house next door was hanging from the basketball hoop the next morning, the one that was attached to the front of his garage, his right arm extended in a macabre version of a jump shot, except for the part where his head was stuck in the rim of the hoop, kind of all twisted around.

"Whoa," said Dean, when they went out front to investigate the screaming. "That can't be good."

Sam rolled his eyes and started over towards the guy's wife, who was in fact screaming her head off. Sam's ears were ringing by the time he got her calmed down enough to get her back in her house. Once she couldn't see her husband's grotesque position anymore, she managed to tell Sam that he'd gone out to get the morning paper and had taken so long to come back that she'd gone outside to investigate.

In the meantime, Dean called 911, and there were cops and paramedics all over the place within five minutes. These people must pay taxes out the ass, Sam thought, what with the awesome community services they got.

Sam didn't think there was any more information to be gotten out of the wife, so he left her in the hands of a balding cop with a skeptical look on his face and a slim blonde EMT with a no-nonsense attitude.

"Well? You think it's the same thing that killed Marvin Tyler and Bob Harris?" Dean asked when Sam ducked back into their kitchen.

Sam nodded. "Yeah, I do. Whoever or whatever put…um," he looked at the notebook where he'd jotted down the neighbor's names, "Tom Mitchell up on that hoop had to be something supernatural."

"Right, well, I still say we need to talk to Harry Cooper." Dean tapped his ring impatiently against the door while Sam grabbed his jacket. "Any time, now, Sammy. Move your ass."

"Bite me," Sam said as he brushed past Dean and opened the front door.

"Maybe later, if you ask me real nice," Dean said, in what Sam thought of as his _balding drunk guy with a bad hairpiece hitting on the buxom local blonde divorcee_ voice. Dean never had a lot of luck getting in Sam's pants when he used that voice, and Sam couldn't figure out why he kept trying.

He turned to roll his eyes at his brother, and Dean actually winked at him. Sam couldn't help the smile that tugged at his lips. "Ass," he said fondly.

Dean's answering smile was so sunny it made Sam want to drag Dean back inside and let Dean bend him over the kitchen table instead of going to see some crazy old man.

"Later, for sure," he said, and watched as Dean's smile brightened in a way that Sam had at one time despaired of ever seeing again.

Harry Cooper's house looked to Sam to be perfect in every detail. The lawn could have been a putting green on a golf course, the shrubs were precisely trimmed to within an inch of their lives, and recycling bins were stored neatly along the side of the house, filled with carefully sorted cans and bottles. There was not a leaf out of place, not a blade of grass even dared to grow in the wrong direction. No peeling paint, no cracked concrete, and the windows sparkled in the morning sun.

"Dude, this is creepy," Dean said. "This is totally not natural." He reached out a hand to ring the doorbell and Sam watched as he let it fall back to his side with an uneasy glance into the perfect bushes that lined up by the front porch.

Sam nodded his agreement, then went ahead and pressed the doorbell himself. Dean slanted a look up at him, the corners of his mouth pulled down in the way Sam knew meant he was unsure of what he was doing but would never admit it, even under pain of no more hamburgers ever.

The doorbell echoed hollowly inside the house, and Sam thought maybe Dean's uneasiness was contagious. There was nothing ominous about the sound of footsteps coming towards the door, though, nothing at all.

The door opened to reveal an ancient-looking man, scrawny and desiccated in the way that only truly old people can be. He had papery yellow skin, and the strands of hair that were almost painfully meticulous in the way they covered his scalp were of the same unpleasant hue.

His shirt looked as if it wouldn't dream of wrinkling, and the perfect knot of his tie was matched only by the perfect shine on his shoes.

When he opened his mouth to speak, Sam saw that his teeth were also yellow. Sam shuddered.

"Mr. Cooper?" Dean asked. He was obviously as repelled as Sam was, but he managed to get his FBI badge out of his pocket and wave it in the guy's face. "FBI. Agents Hall and Oates." Sam blinked and looked at Dean in astonishment. Dean ignored him. "We'd like to ask you a few questions, if you don't mind."

Harry Cooper looked at their badges for a long moment, his face impassive, and then he moved back to let them into the house. He didn't offer them a seat, just kept them standing awkwardly in the entryway. Dean cleared his throat.

"So," he said. "You're a fan of the _Table Saw_ movies? Tara's pretty hot, right?"

Sam rolled his eyes. That's really not the question he'd expected Dean to start with. "Dean," he said.

"Sorry," Dean said, rolling his eyes in turn.

"I have no idea what you're talking about, Agent Hall," Harry Cooper said. His voice was yellow, too, like it didn't get used very often. It sat uncomfortable in Sam's ears. "But there are some things Higgins just won't tolerate."

"Like what?"

"That is for you to discover in your own time. And you will discover it. Everyone does, eventually."

"Yeah, very mysterious," Dean said impatiently. "Let's talk about your neighbors, starting with Marvin Tyler and Bobby Harris."

Harry Cooper sniffed disdainfully. "They were common. The way they kept their houses, their yards, it was disgraceful."

"And Tom Mitchell?"

Harry Cooper swelled with indignation. "He was the worst of them all. He put that - that, _abomination_ up at the end of his driveway. Do you know how that made the rest of the neighborhood look? And the noise, the bouncing noise was absolutely incessant. It was intolerable." He pulled himself up to his full height, which admittedly wasn't all that much. " _Trashy!_ " His chin quivered with the enormity of it all.

"And Higgins?" Sam asked.

"Intolerable, I tell you!" Harry Cooper screeched, ignoring the question.

"Okaaay," Dean said carefully, starting to back slowly toward the door. He jerked his head at Sam. "I think that's all we need to know for now. We'll call you if we have any more questions."

"Guy's completely off his rocker, Sam," Dean said as they hurried down the driveway.

"Ya think, Dean?" Sam asked. They clambered into the Impala and Dean drove them the block and a half back to their house. He had insisted that arriving on foot would look suspicious. Sam thought the only thing Harry Cooper cared about with regards to their arrival and departure was the condition of their car. Thank goodness Dean kept the Impala impeccable. Who knew what that wacky old guy would have done if the car had been rusty or covered with mud.

 _Their house_. Sam thought about smacking himself for his mental slip. _The house they were temporarily squatting in,_ was more like it.

He trudged into the kitchen with a decided lack of springiness in his step. He certainly wanted to waste whatever evil son of a bitch was killing these nice, harmless people. He wasn't about to drag his feet in figuring this case out.

But a very big part of him hoped that it would take just a little while longer to get this particular job done.

He sighed and pulled out his cell phone. "Maybe Bobby'll have an idea about what kind of creature goes around killing people who deviate from their Neighborhood Watchdog mores."

Sam just hoped no poor, unsuspecting person was planning on hanging laundry out to dry on a clothesline in their backyard any time soon. They'd be dead before nightfall, probably some sort of macabre death-by-clothespins thing.

"Mores?" Dean eyed him in amusement as he reached into the freezer and grabbed a package of chicken wings. "Buffalo wings for dinner, you big sociology geek?" he asked.

"Um, sure, fine," Sam said. He pushed number two on his speed dial, and felt the usual pang that he didn't have more than a handful of numbers in there these days. There were people he missed so much he ached.

"So basically what you're saying is that some spirit is killing folks who don't keep their yards neat and tidy, is that it?" Bobby's tone was skeptical, but his voice was warm in Sam's ear. It felt like home.

"It looks that way, Bobby. Do you know of anything like that?"

"No," Bobby said, like that was the dumbest thing he'd ever heard of. "Sounds to me like you've got a pissed off ghost on your hands, that's all. Should be a piece of cake. I think you're too used to dealing with the worst case scenario, you're not seeing the obvious when it's right in front of you." He paused and then said, "How's that brother of yours doing? Ain't you guys been in one place for a while? He going stir crazy on your ass yet?"

"It's been over a week, yeah," Sam responded. He cleared his throat and drifted nonchalantly into the living room, away from Dean's prying ears. "I think he likes it here."

"That why you're draggin' your feet?" Bobby sounded both curious and disapproving.

"No, of course not. I'm not dragging my feet. But." Sam stopped. If he said _I want to stay here_ out loud, that would make it real. Especially if he said it to Bobby. He sighed. "Would it be so wrong, to settle down for just a little bit?" he finally said.

Bobby snorted in his ear. "Wrong? Nah. Near impossible? Yeah."

Sam bristled at that. Why should it be impossible? Why couldn’t they have what other people took for granted? Why shouldn't Dean want that? "Listen, Bobby, I gotta go. You're right, this should just be a simple salt and burn. We'll catch you later."

"Sam-" but Sam hung up before Bobby could say whatever else was on his mind.

"Bobby says it's just a pissed off spirit. I'm going to do some reasearch, see if anyone's ever tangled with the Neighborhood Association." Sam paused, watching Dean pour some kind of sauce over the chicken wings. "Um, unless you need some help with that?" He nodded at the pan.

Dean looked at him as if he'd lost his mind. Sam actually thought he might have. He couldn't cook to save his life. "Seriously, Sammy?"

"Uh, I'll just go, then," Sam mumbled, and he left the kitchen with Dean staring after him.

Half an hour later, when Dean called him for dinner, Sam thought he had it figured out.

"So," he said, dipping a celery stalk in Bleu cheese dressing. Celery totally counted as a vegetable, and Sam had to admit, he was impressed. "There was a guy about five years ago, that the Neighborhood Association seemed to have a grudge against. They harassed him about every little thing, how often he cut his grass, the weeds in his flower bed, where he stacked his recycling bins. There's a whole record of it on the Association's website." Sam crunched his celery and tried not to watch as Dean gnawed on chicken wings like some kind of predator. Although, admittedly, most fierce predators usually didn't end up with sauce all over their chins.

Dean nodded impatiently. "Yeah, and?" he said, washing down his prey with a swig of beer. Sam stared at his throat, at the muscles working as he swallowed. Dean waved a hand in front of his face. "Sam. Focus." There was a glint in his eye that said he knew exactly what Sam was looking at.

"Right," Sam said. He took one last look at the smooth skin of Dean's neck and said, "His name was Higgins. He was shot by a jealous husband. Who was the president of the Association." Sam smirked at the expression on Dean's face.

"So, Higgins...damn." Dean shook his head sadly.

"No movie Higgins, dude. Red herring." Sam grinned. "But I know where this fucker is buried, so..." Sam was looking forward to a simple salt and burn. It was so...uncomplicated.

Dean grinned back at him. "Eat up, Sammy. We've got a long night ahead of us."

 

"Dammit, Dean," Sam groused. He slammed the car door shut, completely ignoring the glare that produced. Dean's precious car could take it. Sam had grave dirt from head-to-toe, not to mention his ankle was probably sprained.

"Hey, nobody told you to take a header into an open grave, Sammy," Dean said, totally without sympathy or remorse of any kind. He patted the hood of the car absently before he followed Sam into the kitchen. "And watch out for the floor, I just cleaned it. Don't go getting mud all over it."

"Higgins _pushed_ me, Dean, I didn't exactly jump in voluntarily," Sam said, bristling with indignation. "You were supposed to be watching out for him."

"I was." Dean shrugged. "But it's hard to burn bones when your giant ass is sprawled out on top of them." He shrugged out of his relatively clean jacket. "Now get out of those clothes before you get grave dirt all over the house."

Sam shook his head and toed off his shoes. "I give up." He stripped off his shirt, watching as clumps of dirt landed all over the floor. Good. Served Dean right.

As Sam was stepping out of his jeans, Dean said, "If you stop pouting, I'll blow you in the shower."

Sam tilted his head, considering. Dean stood in front of him, all bright eyes and irrepressible grin. Sam sighed, like a blowjob from Dean was such a hardship. "Fine," he said. "If you insist."

In reality, Sam wasn't that big a fan of shower sex. As a rule, shower stalls were small and cramped, tubs were slippery, tile had a tendency to be cold and hard. Shower sex was really better suited to someone who took up less space than Sam did.

It wasn't hard to convince Dean that if Sam could take a shower without fear of falling, or of his back coming into unexpected contact with icy tiles, he would be more than willing to let Dean spread him out on the bed and fuck him to his heart's content.

Sam closed his eyes against the feeling of Dean's fingers opening him up, giving in to how vulnerable it made him feel. He pushed back, needing more, and Dean said, "Relax, I've got it covered, Sammy."

When Dean slid into him, Sam recognized contentment thrumming along under the arousal and lust that had him groaning with every thrust. He stopped breathing, trying to hold onto the feeling along with his breath, afraid to let it out, not wanting to let it go.

"Sam, Sammy, so hot," Dean muttered, tightening his fingers on Sam's hips. "God."

Sam's vision sparkled at the edges and he finally breathed, gasped and came with Dean's hand on him, Dean's lips on the back of his neck, Dean moving inside him.

 

"I was thinking, Sammy," Dean said. His face was tucked into Sam's neck, and his breath was warm. Sam shivered. "Maybe we could hang around here for awhile. I don't guess it would kill us to have some sort of base of operations." He was motionless against Sam's chest, muscles held still and tight, waiting.

Sam blew out a long, slow breath, closing his eyes in a small prayer of thanks. "Yeah," he said. "Okay, yeah."


End file.
